Dragon's Oath

The sea salt felt slick against Anastasia’s fingers as she added the final ingredient to her spell. “Salt is the key to bind this spell to me.” She moved over to the green candle, drew another breath, and ordered her thoughts. It was now that she needed to evoke Dragon Lankford’s name and then speak each of the fifteen students’ names in turn, sprinkling a pinch of what was now a magickally infused mixture into the earth flame, while she hoped and prayed each spell would stick and each student would see Dragon with clarity and truth and honesty.

“In this flame the magick cuts like a sword

drawing only the truth of Bryan Lankford!”

As she said his name it happened. Anastasia should have been sprinkling the first pinch of the mixture into the flame and speaking the name of the utterly Lankford-obsessed Doreen Ronney, and instead the night exploded around her in chaos and testosterone as a young fledgling burst from behind the nearest hawthorn tree, sword drawn.

“Move! You’re in danger!” he shouted at Anastasia, giving her a rough shove. Off balance, her arms windmilled, so that the magickal mixture was tossed up, up, up, as she went down, down, down, landing roughly on her bottom. Which was where she sat, watching in openmouthed horror while the warm wind that had been present since she’d opened her spellwork circle caught the magickal mixture and gusted, dashing the entire palmful directly into the fledgling’s face.

Time seemed to suspend. It was as if reality, for an instant, shifted and divided. One second Anastasia was looking up at the fledgling, frozen in the moment, sword up like the statue of a young warrior god. Then the air between her and the unmoving fledgling began to glow with a light that reminded her of the flame of a candle. It rippled and roiled, so bright that she had to lift a hand to shield her eyes. While she squinted against the glare, the brightness split down the middle, parting on either side of the fledgling as if framing his body in tangible light, and from the center of that, juxtaposed in front of the boy, Anastasia beheld another figure. At first he was indistinct. Then he took a step forward, toward her, so that the light illuminated him and he totally blocked her view of the fledgling.

He was the same general height and size as the boy. He, too, was brandishing a sword. Anastasia looked at his face. Her first thought, followed quickly by shock and surprise, was: He has a kind face-handsome really. And then she gasped, realizing what she was seeing. “You’re him! The fledgling behind you. It’s you!” Only it wasn’t really the boy. That was clear. This new figure was a grown man, a full vampyre with the incredibly exotic-looking tattoos of two dragons, facing the filled-in crescent at the center of his forehead, bodies, wings, and tails stretching down his face to frame a firm jaw and full lips-lips that tilted up in a disarmingly charming smile at her. “No, you’re not the fledgling,” she said, looking from his lips up to his brown eyes, which were sparkling a reflection of his smile.

“You drew me, Anastasia. You should know who I am.”

His voice was deep and pleasing to her.

“I drew you? But I…,” her voice trailed off. What had she said just before the fledgling appeared and managed to douse himself in her spellwork? Ah, she remembered! “I’d just said: ‘In this flame the magick cuts like a sword drawing only the truth of Bryan Lankford!’” Anastasia cut off her own words, staring at the vampyre’s tattoos… dragon tattoos. “How is this possible? You can’t be Bryan Lankford! And how do you know my name?”

His smile widened. “You are so young. I’d forgotten.” Holding her gaze with his, he swept her a courtly bow. “Anastasia, my own, my priestess, Bryan Lankford is exactly who you did draw. I am he.” He chuckled briefly. “And I have not been called Bryan by anyone except you for a very, very long time.”

“I didn’t mean to literally draw you! And you’re old!” she blurted, and then felt her face warming. “No, I don’t mean old old. I mean you are older than a fledgling. You’re a Changed vampyre. Not an old one, though.” Anastasia wished desperately that she could disappear under the altar rock.

Bryan’s laugh was warm and good-natured and very appealing. “You asked for the truth of me, and that is what you conjured. My own, this is who I will become in the future, which is why I am, as you say, old and a vampyre, fully Changed. That fledgling over there, behind me, is who I am today. Younger, yes, but also rash and entirely too sure of himself.”

“Why do you know me? Why do you call me ‘my own’?” And why do you make my heart feel as if it is an excited bird that is ready to take flight? she added silently to herself, unable to speak the words aloud.

He closed the small space between them and crouched beside her. Slowly, reverently, he touched her face. She couldn’t really feel his hand, but her breath still caught at his nearness. “I know you because you are my own, as I am yours. Anastasia, look into my eyes. Tell me truthfully what you see.”

She had to do as he asked. She had no choice. His gaze mesmerized her, as did everything about this vampyre. She stared into his eyes and became lost there in what she saw: the kindness and strength, integrity and humor, wisdom and love, utter and complete love. Within his eyes Anastasia recognized everything she’d ever imagined a man to be.

“I see a vampyre I could love,” she said with no hesitation. And then hastily added, “But you’re a Warrior, that’s obvious, and I can’t-”

“You see the vampyre you do love,” he said. Stopping her words he leaned forward, cupped her face in his hand, and pressed his lips to hers.

Anastasia shouldn’t have been able to feel anything. Later she replayed the scene over and over in her mind, trying to decide how a conjured phantom of a man could have possibly made her feel so much without actually being able to touch her at all. But then all she could do was tremble and hold her breath as desire for him, real or imagined, pulsed through her body.

“Ohhh,” she breathed the word on a sigh when he moved slowly, regretfully away from her.

“My love, my own, I am a vampyre and a Warrior. I know it seems impossible right now, but I believe the truth is, to become the person you see-the man of kindness and strength, integrity and humor, wisdom and love-I need you. Without you, without us, I am only a shell of what I should be; I am the dragon without the man. Only you can make the man stronger than the dragon. Remember that when the young, rash, arrogant version of me attempts to drive you mad.” He continued to back away from her.

“Don’t go!”

His smile filled her heart. “I’m not going. I will never willingly leave you, my own. I’ll be right here, growing and learning.” He glanced behind himself at the frozen statue of a fledgling and chuckled, meeting her gaze again. “Even though that may be difficult for you to believe sometimes. Give us a chance, Anastasia. Be patient with me; we’ll be worth it. Oh, and don’t let me kill the bear. It wasn’t going to harm you. It, like me, was only drawn to you because of a spell going slightly, magickally, awry. Neither he, nor I,” he paused and his deep voice softened, “nor even my young, arrogant self, has anything malevolent in mind this night. And my own, my love, I will never allow anything to hurt you.”

As he spoke those last words Anastasia felt a chill flow through her body as if some god or goddess had suddenly poured ice water into her veins. While she shivered with an odd mixture of foreboding and desire, the adult specter of Bryan Lankford, his gaze still locked with hers, surged backward. Light blazed as he was absorbed into the younger version of himself-who instantly began to move again.

Feeling like she had just been hit by the locomotive of one of those huge, coal-eating trains that traversed America, Anastasia watched the younger version of the vampyre, whose ethereal touch still thrilled through her body. He was wiping his tearing eyes with one hand, while with the other he brandished the sword at the enormous brown bear that appeared so suddenly before him on its hind legs. It was so large that Anastasia thought for an instant it, like the older version of Bryan Lankford, had somehow been conjured by her spellwork and was really mist and magick, smoke and shadows.

Just then the bear roared, making the very air around her vibrate, and Anastasia knew this was no illusion.

Lankford’s eyes were clearing quickly, and he was moving with deadly intention toward the creature.

“Don’t hurt it!” Anastasia shouted. “The bear was accidentally brought here by my spell-it has no malevolent